


I'm The Favorite

by WInger



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Detective Comics (Comics)
Genre: Competition, Family, Gen, Humor, Presents, Siblings, Wayne Family, multiple POVs, robins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23094640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WInger/pseuds/WInger
Summary: Like three ugly godmothers bearing gifts, Jason presents his dog. Richard uses his money. Timothy offers him solace from the other two.The winner apparently gets ten percent shares in Wayne Enterprises stocks.Damian wouldn't have tolerated any of their nonsense if he didn’t figure that he stood to be the biggest winner from this situation.---Sometimes – just sometimes, Robins get a certain way where they have to express the meaning of “fuck you” with their entire being.Inside the closet, chewing on silk and pulling buttons off, Damian stills when he hears the sound of Bruce entering. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain yourself more if you want those shares, Richard.”It’s odd that he’s referring to Richard by his full name, and odder still that Richard apparently wanted company stocks. The first Robin liked to act as though he’s above all forms of material consumption and regularly finds enlightenment outside of wealth – until he had some sort of catastrophic crisis to defuse and needed immediate WE money to resolve, that is.---
Relationships: Bat Family & Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 12
Kudos: 208
Collections: Fan Fiction Addiction





	I'm The Favorite

The competition was birthed from a mundane exchange between the three of them one Gotham night.

Dick is chatty and Tim is bored and thus responsive – as they would be, given how all the criminals in the city were running wild exclusively in Jason’s patrol area. Whatever. Jason had bullets to put in meat. He tunes them out.

Though it’s hard to, as always, when people’s voices are right in your ear. “ _I’m his favorite,”_ Dick was saying. Fucking fantastic brother, you do you. And Tim replies “ _You’ll never catch him saying that.”_ Yeah no fucking shit.

“Who?” goes Jason’s knee-jerk reflex anyway, the one that’s never able to play it cool whenever the topic is about Bruce Wayne’s paternal responsibilities. 

_“Robin.”_

“ _I’m sure he will, one day.”_ Dick says. _“He’s pretty articulate. Better at communication than the rest of us, I believe.”_

Jason thinks about muting this utterly pointless conversation, but he’s not even sure if he could, as knowing Tim knowing _him_ , he might have already saw fit to disable that function.

_“He won’t.”_

_“Yes he will. I’ll get him to say it. That’ll show you.”_

_“Not interested.”_

_“I’ll touch him with my kindness.”_

“Hold him at gunpoint,” Jason throws in.

 _“He’s sick, just leave him alone.”_ Tim sighs.

But later on nearing daybreak, en route back to their respective cribs, Dick sends the following message to the two of them in their group chat:

 **Dickie** _(04:37)_ : Five percent Wayne Enterprise shares to the one that gets Damian to say “you’re my favorite”, exact words, within 24 hours starting 0500

What kind of nonsense is this? Courting that spoilt little brat’s favoritism for _money_? What kind of man does Richard Grayson think he is?

 **You** _(04:38)_ : 10%.

_Dickie is typing…_

**Timmy** _(04:38)_ : double that and you’re on

 **Dickie** _(04:39)_ : Fine with B.

 **You** _(04:39)_ : TWENTY%??

 **Dickie** _(04:39)_ : No, 10!

 **Dickie** _(04:39)_ : A deal’s been struck, boys!

One thing about Red Hood – he never turned money down. Not even when it’s clearly for some cheap tactic to get them all to shower affection on the most spoilt member of the family. Game on.

* * *

_I_ _n the morning_

So Jason brought his dog. They’d met when he’d been breaking someone out of prison. He’d brought her back to Gotham subsequently – or rather, _she’d_ decided to come along with him back home, and he hadn’t gotten around to naming her yet.

And now he’s graciously decided to give that honor to the most precious demon spawn in the world.

He’ll win the game so quickly none in the manor would be the wiser. Today’s the day. He was up and about from seven-thirty in the morning. Cleanshaven - check. Shampooed - check. Sunscreen and cologne - check. Outfit - the least offensive polo shirt he could find, matched with sensible golf shorts and plain white sneakers - check. The old butler was speechless when he came to get him at the door. Now Jason-rebranded was leisurely introducing his girl to Titus by playing fetch with high-quality toys and a trust fund-worthy smile, one to match the pleasant Gotham spring weather out on the grass field directly beneath Bruce’s bedroom wing. It’s a strategic location, _obviously_ – if the shares are coming from Bruce, then there’s a front-row seat to this performance with his damned name on it. 

“Are you throwing Batarangs at my dog?”

The summoning spell worked seamlessly. Jason turns around with a chill “Hey!” Damian’s eyes widen and he takes a half-step back, immediately on guard. 

He’s not sure if the kid’s attempting to screw with the impression he’s trying to give Bruce or if that’s genuine surprise, but he has a feeling he’ll be more offended if it’s the latter. “They spin well,” he explains. He throws another; the dogs speed out and tumble over each other in chase. “And I’ve filed the edges down. ‘Sides, these kind of stuff don’t faze Bat-hounds.”

He hands the olive branch over to Damian. With reluctance, the kid takes his eyes off him to scrutinize the makeshift toy. And then he tosses it, but so weakly that the Batarang sailed a small, short-lived arc and nailed the ground with a thud. Even the dogs are unimpressed. Titus lets out a whine and Damian sniffles in response, cheeks welling into a pout.

“Wanna just stroll out at an easy pace?” Jason says, consciously keeping any and all judgement out of his voice.

“Shut the _fuck_ up, Todd.”

Jason’s girl picks up Damian’s dropped Batarang. “Bring it here,” Jason calls. She ignores him and runs to Titus, curious about Damian.

“Who’s this?” Damian asks, squatting and letting the smaller pit sniff his hand.

“A good girl.”

“Yes, but what’s her name?”

“Doesn’t have one.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno. She’s her own being. I thought maybe she could tell me her name herself. Eventually, you know. One way or the other.” He shrugs ambivalently.

Damian squints dubiously at him. “What about Midas, after her ass of an owner?”

Jason has to bite the insides of his mouth to keep his lightning temper from showing. “I didn’t ask _you_ , did I?”

Damian raises his brows. “ _Didn’t_ you?”

Damn it, yes, but _not like this_. He tosses another Batarang at Damian. Slowly, in case the message wasn’t clear enough to anybody potentially watching. “Let’s just play with the dogs.”

“Master Damian!” Alfred interrupts with a call. “You have a package waiting for you in the living room.”

* * *

_Immediately after that_

It’s uncharacteristic for Dick to summon anybody around in the Wayne manor, but he needed to anonymously lure Damian away from Jason, and Alfred was the best man – the only man, really – to get the job done. He figured he had all of a minute before Jason suspected that he was behind this intervention.

“Hey, kid. How’s your off day been?”

“I was told that there’s a present for me,” Damian asks, from afar.

Dick throws his arms out. “Come get your hug!”

Damian turns around without another word.

“No Dami wait! Here! I got you a cashmere sweater and scarf set-“

“I already own cashmere sweaters and scarves.”

“The finest, most sustainable, ethical, softest, most luxurious goat wool in the world-“

“I don’t want it unless it’s a different color than the ones I already have.”

“I know.” Dick grins, shit-eatingly. People hate that grin – they hate it ‘coz he’s right. He rips open his gift-wrapped box in a hurry to show off the Turkish blue sweater next to a roll of seashell white scarf. “I picked it out with your skin tone and eye color in mind,” Dick coos. “Come try it out!”

Damian hesitates – but really, Dick knows he’s on the hook. In a household full of men with world-changing ambitions, “articles of clothing” never once merit a full-table conversation – the first rule was all-black; the second rule was that all-black always works; the third was that Robins must of course wear firetruck red and canary yellow and traffic light green so that Batman would never lose sight of them in the long and dark nights – having clothing at all that was well thought out, _curated_ even, was as rare as having Damian crack a genuine smile your way.

The size and colors fit him to a tee, and Dick gives him the time to preen in front of the living room mirror. “Your next present is a trip out. Come on! I know you’re tired of being locked up in this stuffy old house. Let’s hit town!”

“I don’t want to go,” Damian goes, tucking half his face into the scarf. A _do_ rable. “Father’s taken my suit away. There’s no point going anywhere without it.”

“No worries! In the small likelihood that we will encounter a criminal, I have my suit, and you have my weapons to use.”

“ _Small_? This is Gotham city-“

“Yes, in the _day_. Besides, if anything comes up any of the others will handle it. Like good ol’ Tim. That’s the advantage of being a superhero family. There’s always somebody else to take care of things!”

“Timothy doesn’t function in the day.”

“ _Pet Semetary_?” Dick pulls the movie tickets out with a flourish.

Damian hesitates, but Dick knows he’s already won him over. Pet animals and gory terrors by the King of Horror? Come on.

“Why don’t we just watch it in the manor’s private theatre room?”

 _So that the other two vultures in the house don’t get to you,_ Dick thinks, ushering him to the garage with a beam.

* * *

_Two hours later_

As expected, the movie doesn't impress Damian, but Richard himself also didn’t seem all that satisfied either. “Should’ve just watched the original in the manor,” he groused.

“Those animal masks are gonna haunt my dreams tonight,” Richard shudders. “Don’t you think they resemble the ones used by the Court of Owls? Coincidence, I think not.”

True, certain props seemed a little too close to real life for Damian’s comfort. But he’s got other bones to pick. “Evil child resurrection tropes are so overdone,” he mutters.

Richard is about to pat him on the head – Damian shoots him a death glare – and he quickly lopes his arm around his shoulder instead. “Let’s discuss how much of the movie is creative liberty versus inspiration drawn from actual Gotham criminals over some Batburgers.” They cross the road to the burger joint.

“I want a Batmite set.”

“Yes! I’ve been collecting the toys too!”

“Of course you would.”

“You know I almost considered buying tickets to catch that movie instead-“

Damian slaps his hand over his mouth. He had to get on his tip-toes to do it, which is why the “Noted” was snarled out of his mouth. He knows Richard doesn’t care, or at least claims to not care, but _he_ has a reputation to maintain as the civilian Damian Wayne. Of all of them, the tabloids already had it out for him, always painting him specifically as the poster child of Bruce Wayne’s affectionate, fatherly side. Personally, Damian’s been taking pains to portray himself as someone that can be easily mistaken for 15 and up. Richard rambling about Batburger’s latest _Shazam Family_ amateur figurine series in close proximity to him? No thank you.

“You know what, you’re right. This movie was much better. If we brought Bruce along I’m sure he would have much to dissect about what the visual imagery in the movie says about the layman’s perceptions to villains like Scarecrow... and Mr. Pyg.”

Damian snorts. “My father doesn’t believe in popular culture or entertainment.”

“Which is _exactly_ why we didn’t bring him! Anyway, Batmite set, right? With a Spoiler Shake? We’re gonna hit the arcades after this, and-“

“What’s your agenda?” Damian interrupts.

Richard’s so smooth, he doesn’t even stop fake-smiling. “What?”

“Your suspiciously good-natured behavior. Spit it out.”

“Of all the people that you know, _surely_ I'm the last one to be suspected on grounds of being kind and generous!” Richard squints at him, trying to sow doubt with a carefully drawn expression. 

“Why are you and Todd so obnoxiously courting my favors?”

“Who, Jason? Why, is he?”

Damian glares at him - but then the excellent timing of the rev of a sports car engine right outside the restaurant provides the distraction Richard had been so desperately seeking. The sound is extra harsh on his mild headache and his right shoulder jerks of its own accord, itching to whip out his pocket Batarang and puncture one of the car’s tires. Richard gasps in horror. _“No.”_

Damian turns in surprise. It’s _their_ car. The roof is open and there’s a gaggle of young, skinny women perched precariously over the seats. Their bodies were obscuring the drivers', who reverses from the lot, gets into the driveway, and spins obnoxious rounds on the tarmac. There were passerbys filming from a safe distance on their phones.

Richard’s only just run through the doors when the arm of the car thief emerges out from among the women and flips a bird at him. It’s Jason, without a doubt. Timothy would have been picking the women up in a helicopter. 

Their ride blasts off. Richard jumps on a stranger’s motorbike and goes after him. Damian is left sitting at the table, alone and forgotten – only not quite. A new shadow falls over his side. He pursues his lips as for the third time, another Robin makes their "casual", unsolicited appearance in Damian's day, seating himself on the opposite bench with a zipped-up hoodie and something unnecessary up his overlong sleeves. 

From the over-generous big brother to the reformed family disappointment to the Yale undergrad, what’s with all the Bruce Wayne wards today? “What do _you_ want?” he demands, already getting the idea that he’s about to be bullied into going along with another person’s plans the third time round.

“I’m here to offer you respite from the other two,” says Timothy Drake, placing a small device in the middle of the table. 

* * *

_Two hours earlier_

Tim had loped Jason into cooperating with him easily enough, since, well, it’s Jason. And stealing Damain from Dick was certainly a shared priority, but his get-up today had been so… unexpected that he hadn’t been able to resist taking the time to gawk and comment. “Has Bruce _seen_ you?”

“Oh, he will.” It sounded like a threat, the way Jason answered. “I had Alfred take plenty of photos.”

Wow. Tim couldn’t wait to see those photos – and share them with the entire Internet. “ _Right_. Well, I think you’ll need something flashier for what I have in mind.”

Then they’d raided Dick’s closet. There wasn’t a lot of variety in the stuff there, but everything was expensive and enough to make Jason look like yet another spoilt, overgrown, bratty child to come out of Wayne manor.

Or at least, the kind of guy who would match the kind of car Dick had chosen to drive today. He must have been in an especially good mood – he’d picked the fanciest one from the garage. There was only one of that fire truck-red Lamborghini in the entire city, and the only tracking database Tim had to check was Twitter. The only thing that was marginally harder was finding the supermodels on such short notice.

Lucky for them, Tim’s the family genius. The solution: Instagram. He selected a photo of Jason posing with the dogs from that impromptu photoshoot he’d had with Alfred, and wrote _I’m Dick Grayson-Wayne’s little brother #jasontoddwayne #brucewayne #myadoptedfather #dickgrayson #mybigbrother #ilovegotham._ Obviously, he also dipped into the servers and got the account officially verified.

The copywriting got him into a minor scuffle with Jason, but the results came in hot and fast. Jason was distracted on his phone the entire time Tim drove the black family Jeep out. Tim made him take a selfie in Dick’s sapphire silk shirt – who would have thought that sapphire blue was also Jason Todd’s color? – and he seemed more than a little nervous replying all the messages on his phone, fiddling and scratching his collar and hair. 

“Why do we have to find the models again?”

“Part of your act to cause a big enough ruckus that Dick wouldn’t be able to ignore.”

“God... There's something so Roy Harper about this plan. I can't-” And then he was distracted again by a returned selfie. Interesting comment anyway. Tim redirected the conversation – “They’re just models, Jason. Bruce and Dick party with them all the time. You’ll be fine.”

That shut him up. “Have a good time,” he said, dropping him off at his rendezvous point. _See you never,_ he thought internally.

Then he’d parked and jumped on the roof of the Batburger to wait for his window.

* * *

_Now_

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Damian sips loudly on his drink - hot tea with lemon and honey. “But I’m curious.”

“ _That’s_ the attitude.” Timothy flicks his eyes meaningfully towards the device.

“What’s that?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Depends.”

“Push the button.”

They stare at each other without saying anything for half a minute before Damian tentatively pushes it with a scowl.

The world around him warps. He’s been sucked through dimensional portals before, he knows when he’s going through one. He’s got a hand curled around Timothy Drake’s wrist before he even consciously thought about it.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe.”

“ _Or_ I’ll twist your hand off.”

“Sure.”

This new world seemed to have unfolded out of the device, square pixels falling out of pixels and building up even more pixels. He noticed the ground first - a smooth carpet of grass, the ideal shade of green, spotted with the occasional lavender and buttercup flowers. At the horizon it met with the sky, a watercolor gradient of pink, lilac and blue – but not too saturated, just patches in the sky, in pleasing gradients. There’s a lush forest of trees towards his left. He can hear birds and the rush of a waterfall in the distance. There’s so much to take in, it almost slips his notice that his body had magically gone from sitting to standing.

“Where am I?” he demands, too surprised to remember not to sound impressed.

“Just a pocket dimension I’ve been building on the side. I call it _The_ _Hotel Arcadia._ ”

 _‘Just a pocket dimension’,_ he said. “For what purpose?”

“Well, someday I’m sure it’ll be repurposed to hold and transport criminals, but for now it’s just a private space for me to relax in.”

Damian is slack-jawed internally, even though he’s got a solid grip of his facial expression externally. “Are we still at the Batburger?”

“Not physically. But technically that was our entry point, and will be our exit point – unless we move to a different real-world location via this pocket space. Which we can. I have the means to. Just in case of superhero duties. This one is Room 147, by the way.”

And thereby implying the existence of 146 other rooms. Nobody else humble-brags quite like Timothy does. “Why did you bring me here?”

“What do you think of this place?”

Damian frowns. “It’s not uncommon technology. Private zones detached entirely from conventional space-time would be the perfect place to conduct clandestine activity on both sides of the law. I can’t imagine this sort of thing would be tolerated by governments-“

“Not _that_. I meant, just, what do you think of the look of this place?”

Damian swings his head left and right. The double rainbows are massive. The water vapor in the air glimmered like fairy dust. Somehow all of this still managed to fall within the realm of tasteful and relaxing. “Where’s the waterfall?”

“There isn’t one. I included the sound because it’s supposed to be calming.”

“Well then, if only you’d thought to include it, I _might_ have thought of this place as _pretty_ close to perfect.” 

“Gee, really? What difference does a single waterfall actually make? I’ve got plenty of other rooms dedicated to water-type environments, like beaches with different sand and sea color combinations... Honestly, any environment you can think of, I probably have it. The most challenging one yet is making a full underwater one – I need to collect more references from Atlantis.”

Damian shrugs. “It’s missing a _something_.” Deliberately vague and just thoughtful enough to be annoying. Timothy narrows his eyes. “Ever wanted to sleep on a bed of roses?”

Damian waits expectantly.

Timothy lies down on the grass and a bush of roses immediately pushes him 10 inches off the ground, outlining his body and giving a little extra height for his head ‘pillow’. Damian imitates him immediately. “I want blue ones.” 

Timothy snaps his fingers obligingly. These artificial roses were far more comfortable than any real flowers could ever aspire to be. Are those petals rubbing against his skin, massaging him into sleep? Incredible. “Answer the question,” he murmurs, quickly becoming lethargic.

“Well, if you _liked_ it, I was gonna give it to you.”

That – now that wakes him back up. He attempts to sit, and the roses are quick to accommodate, elevating his back up like an intuitive massage chair. “Whatever for?”

“From one high-stress person to another, I wanted to… I figured this could be a nice way for you to de-stress. It’s worked for me pretty well, so far.”

Say Damian bought that for now. “In this family, being high-stress is the norm.”

“Yeah, so one for everybody. But one at a time. Figuring out all your likes and dislikes isn’t easy…”

“And yet you were fine with assuming that I liked a glittery rainbow garden paradise with a waterfall soundtrack.”

“Um, yeah. But like Jason, that’s hard. I mean,”

“Room 666. Put him in a circle of hell.”

“Hahaha. Very funny, Damian.”

A beat of silence.

“Can people in the material world summon us back?”

“Sure they can, anytime.” At Damian’s disgruntled face, he reiterates, “ _When_ we’re needed, we _have_ to go-“

The parallel dimension warps in a second, the infinite grasslands of Room 147 disappearing in a flash, and Damian going from soft and springy flower bed to the rock-hard flooring of Wayne manor, and the big forehead of one Richard Grayson looming ominously above the two of them.

“I was so _worried_! Where on Earth did the two of you disappear to? Tim, you better start explaining!”

Timothy sighs. To Damian he says, “I gave them a special button to press in the event of emergencies.” And to Richard he says, “Chill, Dick, it’s just a pocket dimension.”

“You _left_ Earth?! Damian is sick and you-”

Damian slips out while they argue and into his own room unnoticed.

* * *

The door is ajar and filled with an occupant and two dogs waiting for him in the dark. Titus is lying on his bed. The pit bull was sitting on the floor.

“Pennyworth doesn’t like the animals on beds,” he says, scowling that Jason Todd’s uninvited presence was making him hover at the entrance of _his own room._

He’s leaning by the windows, arms folded and most of his body tucked in the shadows like a third-rate villain. “He’s no boss of you.”

Damian flicks on the lights. “What do you want?”

“Our interaction earlier was cut short due to other unfortunate circumstances…”

“To the point, Todd.”

“Thought you’ll appreciate the chance to snuggle peacefully with the best dogs in the world after being dragged to so many places by the two inconsiderate assholes."

Damian pounces onto his mattress, arms around Titus, and then pats the mattress encouragingly until the other dog also joins them. 

Jason sits himself on the edge of his bed, and when Damian doesn’t attempt to push him off, starts ruffling the dogs’ furs. “Come up with any other name for her, while you were out?”

Damian shoots him a look. “You stated earlier that you weren’t taking suggestions.”

“Well, what I’d really meant was that _that_ specific suggestion of yours was shitty.”

Damian rolls his eyes.

“Holly.”

“… Better, but sounds more like a cat name.”

“Of a ginger tabby?”

“Admittedly.”

Damian glares at the side of his head until Jason turns. “What?”

“Because that’s what you were thinking of. _Breakfast at Tiffany’s._ Paraphrasing Holly Golightly’s speech about not wanting to name her stray cat. Why even ask when you already had an idea for one yourself? Why all these hoops to get me to voice the answer you already had in mind?”

Jason gives him a shrewd look. “I thought it’d be better for the owner of the dog to name his pet himself.”

It takes a beat for that statement to sink in. “What’s the catch?” Damian challenges, holding himself back from giving a positive reaction.

“There isn’t one.”

Damian narrows his eyes. Jason remains assured and confident. While maintaining eye contact he abruptly lunges for the pit bull in an aggressive hug. Before the dog could even spring off the bed, Jason’s arm shoot out and stops Damian mid-action across the chest. 

“Consider it a partial ownership,” the Red Hood amends, a scowl now scrawled across his features. “Letting her stay in Wayne manor with the understanding that you will use the wealth of your resources to provide the best of the best to my good girl.”

And Damian rolls his eyes mightily. Firstly, those resources were open to Jason as well, and secondly, “What a frugal man.”

“She can be _our_ dog. Right, Holly?” Jason removes his arm and brings it over to stroke the pit bull’s head. “We’re… We’re brothers, right?”

Damian scrunches up his face. “I beg your pardon?“

Jason looked like he was struggling to get the words out himself. It looked painful. He definitely didn’t sound like he believed it. Why, therefore, was he trying so hard to say it? “We live… together, thanks to Bruce. He brought us together… In this, uh, manor. The least we can do is all get along. Like a real, like a real _family_.”

He drops his gaze, squeamish under Damian’s baffled, suspicious, unwavering stare. He seemed to fight with himself for the longest time, and then:

“AmIyourfavoriteorwhat?”

 _What?_ “Care to repeat that?”

“You heard me!”

Yes he did, but Damian’s thinking, putting two and two together. He hesitates.

* * *

_Back at the crack of dawn_

Damian’s been sick before. Seasonal flu bugs he’s always been a little more vulnerable to. But having his suit confiscated to bar him from superhero-ing because he’d fallen ill? That was the new low that the Batman had sunk to.

Damian had taken to this form of parenting pretty badly. Or perhaps he’ll never take well to parenting, in any manner or form. He’d broken into his father’s civilian study – reserved solely for Wayne Enterprises business proceedings – and gone through all his files, mad in every sense of the word and looking for something to blackmail Bruce Wayne with.

He hadn’t found anything. Why did his father have to be such a perfectionist? Unbearable. Inhumane. His headache seemed hellbent on killing him. Damian roars (weakly) and drags himself to the closet, planning to screw up all his spare suits by sleeping and sneezing on them. Sometimes – just sometimes, Robins get a certain way where they have to express the meaning of “fuck you” with their entire being. 

Inside the closet, chewing on silk and pulling buttons off, Damian stills when he hears the sound of Bruce entering. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain yourself more if you want those shares, Richard.”

It’s odd that he’s referring to Richard by his full name, and odder still that Richard apparently wanted company stocks. The first Robin liked to act as though he’s above all forms of material consumption and regularly finds enlightenment outside of wealth – until he had some sort of catastrophic crisis to defuse and needed immediate WE money to resolve, that is.

“You’re going to _what?”_ Bruce sounded almost distressed. Or was that disbelieving? Damian’s mental faculties were a little hazy at the moment.

“And now you want ten percent.”

“How does one win the game?”

“Damian would never say such a thing, Dick.”

Hearing his name so unexpectedly causes him to jolt and knock carelessly against the wall of the closet. His father walks over. Damian berates himself on the inside.

“It’s a deal when either of you bring irrefutable evidence. I’ll judge the winner by the context the words were said and the quality of the gift. Best of luck, then.” Bruce opens the door, towering over Damian and the mess of ruined clothing.

“Say _what_?” Damian demands hotly. They frown at each other for a minute.

“It’s a surprise,” his father deadpans.

“I’m worth _far_ more than ten percent of the company’s shares,” he spits, and lunges for his father’s legs.

“It’s not about the money,” Bruce sighs, once he’s caught and restrained Damian under his arms. “They’re planning on doing something nice for you.”

“There’s nothing nice about this family!!” Damian howls, right into his father’s ear.

“And that’s what your brothers will set out to prove,” his father answers dully.

* * *

_Present time_

“You’re my favorite sibling,” he concedes to Jason, who smiles. The sentiment certainly reaches his eyes, but it was a viper-like, twisted stretch of his lips, making him practically indistinguishable from all those other young hot-shots trying to slide into the Wayne’s good books at galas and events. Despicable, really. But it was so rare for Jason Todd to smile like he meant it that there was also something disarming about his expression - like there was more to this man than his chaotic philosophy and wannabe-entrepreneur dreams. 

“Dog-lovers unite,” he then says goofily, shattering that image in one fell swoop. Whatever, Todd. They fist bump amicably. Damian lets him and the dogs continue to stay on his bed without comment. 

* * *

“That missing ‘something’ you were complaining about? I figured it out.”

“Oh?” Damian hadn’t even known what he _himself_ had been complaining about. As expected of the prodigy. “Do tell.”

“I’ll show you.” With a press of the button, Timothy beams the both of them back to Room 147.

And there’s a gray-pink, fully grown, braided unicorn with brown almond eyes standing right in front of Damian.

“Is that…?”

Timothy lays on a wink on top of his signature shit-eating grin – disgusting. He turns away and focuses on the magical unicorn. He could feel the creatures’ breaths of air when he put a hand near her snout. He stroked her fur, smooth and soft, and lightly touched the glowing, majestic horn.

“Well done,” Damian mutters. “I’m impressed.”

“Thank _you_ for the compliment.”

“Seriously giving this room to me?”

“ _Course_. You’re my brother.”

He's so much of a better actor than the other two that Timothy doesn't gag - not even once - getting those words out of his mouth. But of course Damian knew what the goal was now. “You are my favorite,” he tells him, shaking hands, sealing the transaction, and earning himself a beam - one with all the power of Gotham’s biggest and ugliest billboard. "Take me to the waterfall," he orders, pulling himself up on the unicorn. 

"Jesus, not that again... Haven't added that waterfall just yet, Damian. Like I said, water is surprisingly complex to code into dimensional pixels-"

"Humor me," Damian insists. "You hid that summoning button in Wayne Manor, I presume? No one's going to teleport us out before I say so?"

"I destroyed it." Timothy smiles. "But fine. Let's go find your waterfall." 

* * *

“You’re the best,” he says to Dick. “Thank you for cheering me up on my sick day.”

“Aww, Dami, what’s gotten into you all of a sudden? I mean, it’s cool that you’re being so affectionate and all, but…”

“ _You’re_ my favorite.”

And Dick’s smile goes past 100% and into the 150% levels. “I _know_!”

“I want to spend more days like this, even when I’m not sick. Do you promise?”

“Yes, yes! Of course I do! That’s me! Your _favorite_ big brother would never let you down... You know, I know you have reservations about watching _Shazam_ in public, but we can book out our own Wayne manor theatre room and indulge in our guilty pleasure all the same - in the comfort of home, am I right? What do ya say, bud?” 

* * *

_The victor_

“You should give me the shares,” Damian says. In one hand he’s holding Holly by her newly bought red leather leash, her coat sleek and glowing from her new brush and shampoo and luxurious pet spa treatment. In the other he’s holding a leash to a holographic projection of Timothy’s CGI unicorn. He’s decked in the truly flattering cashmere set from Dick, standing in front of his father’s desk, about 80% recovered from his cold and looking like a child about to negotiate with Santa for more _._

“The shares were not the point of this exercise,” Bruce explains. Oh, to be a father, and always in position to explain things to other people. “I _know_ ,” Damian presses. “And so as not to spoil them, you should put this money away.”

“My Robins are never spoilt,” Bruce rebukes. “But fair advice. I’ll put the money back.”

“That’s a lot of money you’re moving in and out of the company account for no good reason,” Damian continues to argue. “Putting all of it into my trust fund has got to be the easiest explanation to give to the board.”

“If you’re not planning to touch this money until after _I_ die, why bother making this case right now?”

Damian raises his eyebrows. He would have thought the answer was obvious. “I want to win.”

His father laughs lightly. “You’ve won all of their affections.”

“No,” says Damian, stepping forward. “Money is tangible, goodwill is not.”

“ _Damian_ ," his father admonishes with a steely look. "Go outside and play with your brothers.”

“My attention and time needs to be cash-incentivized.”

“ _Go,_ or I’ll split the shares equally among all four of you.”

“How about you donate the shares in my name to animal charities around the world?”

"Get out of my office, please." He ushers - or tries to - shoo Damian out the door. "Wait!" he cries. "You're my favorite parent!" 

And a smile cracks across Bruce Wayne's face, but no word still on where those 10% stocks were going to go. 

**Author's Note:**

> Writing Damian judging Bruce and Dick in the most scathing way possible was the most entertaining creative exercise I’ve had in a while.
> 
> You can tell exactly when I first drafted this thanks to those movie references.


End file.
